The Shepherd (The Aionach Saga Book 0)

by Staudt, J. C.

  There was a wet splorch as the muck burst where Lodd touched the surface, as if his toe were a heavy stone landing in a deep pool. Viscous and brown, the substance splashed high above Lodd’s head. Flat tendrils formed, wrapped around his limbs and yanked him off his feet. They enveloped his whole body and stifled his screams as they dragged him under. Indeed, this was no mud at all. It was a creature; a living thing. Toler had read about the husking loams that inhabited the damp caves and shadowed gullies of the mountains, but before now, he had never seen one. He almost didn’t consider the possibility that this could be a husking loam until the memory of those old pages in Biology came racing back to him.

  He cursed and bolted to the edge of the bank, scanning the surface for signs of Lodd. The loam would hold him under until it suffocated him. Then it would begin the slow process of digestion.

  As Toler scanned the living lake, the vague shapes of other men became visible further from the shore, encased like liquefied ghosts in their tombs. The traces of one particular passage came rushing back to him, and he touched the end of his torch to the surface. The flames spread, fueled by the decaying biomass and organic matter of the loam. He thanked his stars for books, waiting for the sludge to burn away before he yanked Lodd from its grasp, hauling him to shore as the man gasped for air. The other men from the caravan were no longer in a state where breathing would’ve done them any good.

  The fire wouldn’t eradicate the loam forever; if he wanted to destroy it completely, a more thorough extermination would’ve been necessary. A husking loam could regrow itself from the tiniest drip or puddle, pulling moisture, insects, and plant matter into itself as it expanded over the course of months or years, using almost none of its stored energy to subsist until live prey came near. When it got bigger, it would begin consuming rodents, and eventually it would be able to devour larger beasts. Someday it would be large enough to pull down humans again. But that day would not come for a long time, and for now, Toler was satisfied to exit the cave with his friend and leave a warning for others who might stumble upon it.

  It felt terrible to leave the cave’s cool wind behind them and resume baking in the daylight. They brought the riderless horses back to the caravan and spread word of the danger. The husking loam had choked two shepherds and a merchant’s apprentice. Dead shepherds were all too common. Dead merchants were a rare gift, as Toler saw it.

  “I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” Lodd told him when the commotion had died down. He’d sustained only minor burns from the ordeal and was otherwise no worse for the wear.

  “I have an idea. Switch over to my crew. Blatcher will take you on. Calistari hired a couple of half-inchers from Tristol. We don’t like them, and you’re better than both.”

  Lodd pursed his lips. “That’s right. You’re working Calistari’s crate.”

  “He’s not so bad,” Toler said. They both knew that was a lie.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so,” Lodd said, shaking his head.

  “It isn’t an offer. You said you didn’t know how you could ever thank me. I’m telling you… this is how.”

  Lodd’s brow furrowed and he gave Toler a sideways look. “If you insist. The best I can probably do is work out a trade.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll get Blatcher to talk to your crew lead. DiBellock, right? We’ll give him our scrawny bald dway in exchange for you.”

  “Yeah, it’s DiBellock. He won’t be happy about it.”

  Toler shrugged, frowning his indifference. “Ask me about the last time I cared whether DiBellock was happy.”

  10

  As the last day of the trip between Tristol and Rills dawned and the signs of civilization came into view on the horizon, Calistari and three of his five shepherds approached with the thought of their precious cargo and its secret full in their minds. The other two shepherds remained blissfully unaware, though Lodd hadn’t appeared blissful about anything since he’d switched to Calistari’s crew.

  “Walling--Wallingford, is that how you say it?” Calistari was seated next to the coachman, struggling to write between bumps in the scrubland.

  Lodd frowned, an expression that fit his long, slender face. “Lodd. Just call me Lodd - everyone calls me Lodd.”

  “Very well, Mr. Lodd,” the merchant said, trying to project his voice over the noise of the caravan. “As I’m certain Mr. Blatcher has informed you, I don’t tolerate insolence. My reports to Mr. Vantanible are thorough. I reward those who do their best work and follow orders. My recommendation for you will hinge upon your behavior.”

  Toler glanced over at Lodd, crinkling his mouth by way of apology. Lodd glowered back at him.

  Calistari cleared his throat. “Now, first thing’s first. You will remain with the flatbed until I dismiss you. Rills does not offer as safe a haven as Tristol, so the crate must be guarded at all times. This means you will work in shifts, pairing off in twos, with Mr. Shapperton here being the sixth man. Mr. Lodd?”

  “Yeah.” Lodd sighed. He’d been actively ignoring Calistari, and he looked perturbed that Calistari had caught him.

  “Right. You’ll be paired with Mr. Shapperton. Mr. Blatcher and Mr. Mays will make up the second pair, while Mr. Glaive and Mr…. Rauk--Raukel, will be the third.”

  Toler took a long look at Ort Raukel, the raven-haired stranger who’d joined them last week. The man had a tribal look about him, and Toler guessed he had savage blood from somewhere not too far down the line. Either he wasn’t much for conversation, or the bleak stares he threw the other shepherds were his way of being friendly.

  As Rills grew in the distance, the caravan crossed ground ranging from bone-dry to swampy. The terrain around Rills was the dampest in the Amber Coast, except near the ocean. Dust billowed in some places, while mud stuck to the flatbeds’ thick-treaded tires in others.

  Rills was a dried shell of a village, like so many other settlements in the Aionach. The unruly whims of the light-star had deprived it of its former greatness. Originally built between the branches of three rivers and their tributaries, the town was a sprawling mass of stilts and trestles. Its houses were primitive, stone and thatching and corrugated steel, with stick fences lashed together with reeds and hempen rope. Time and wind had applied their influence to topple many of the town’s buildings, but the residents had scavenged leftovers and remnants from those to keep the other structures in good repair.

  Bridges of riverstone and clay mud crossed great expanses of dry delta where mighty rivers had once rushed by. The Heat’s cruel effects had made a mockery of them. Trout had once swam thick in those streams. Without them, the people of Rills now had to travel far up the mountainside to reach deep water. In recent years, they’d learned to survive on less appetizing varieties of aquatic life, like freshwater eel, mollusks, and bottom feeders.

  The people of Rills welcomed the caravan, lining the streets in sparse crowds, altogether a more docile people than the cityfolk. Smaller settlements felt more like communities; instead of being at each other’s throats, the people were inclined to work together. Peaceful towns like Rills often turned away the violent and immoral, leaving the cities to become magnets for those less savory characters.

  “Shapperton, you good-for-nothing,” Calistari said when the flatbed hit a deep gouge and knocked the pen from his hand. “Mr. Lodd,” he yelled back, waving at the sodden implement below. “Do kindly pick that up and bring it here.”

  Toler almost felt bad for Lodd, but this was too entertaining to spoil with pity.

  “Hurry, now.” Calistari was shaking his arm with urgency, as if the pen would vanish when he got too far away. Lodd dismounted, used to feeling sand and hardpan beneath his feet. When he sunk into soft mud instead, he wobbled and fell over backwards, his boots suctioned into place.

  They say the best friends are the ones who will suffer with you. Toler was glad for friends who were willing to suffer for him. He halted his horse and extended a hand to help Lodd to his feet. “This is
the second time in as many days that I’ve had to help you out of the mud,” he said, grinning.

  “Quit smiling or I’ll make sure you can’t do it again for a week.” Lodd twisted around to check how much mud was on the back of his pants.

  “I’m sorry,” Toler said, forcing his grin into a barely containable smirk.

  “This was a bad coffing idea.”

  “Letting me rescue you a second time?”

  “Letting you talk me into swapping crews.”

  “I didn’t talk you into anything. You owed me, remember?”

  Lodd picked up the pen, managed to get his boots free, and mounted. “Then warn me the next time I’m about to owe you something, so I can never do it again. Owing you anything is a bad coffing idea.”

  “Mr. Lodd,” Calistari called from far ahead, still flapping an impatient hand. “If you please?”

  Lodd gave Toler a look that would’ve lit a wet cigarette before he rode off to give Jakob his pen.

  11

  Toler found Calistari’s room and gave the heavy wooden door a firm knock. They were staying at a dingy old motel called the Brooks Laryn, an L-shaped building with a flat roof and rust-flecked paint. The worn billboard out front had a hanging banner strapped to it that read FREE COFFEE WITH STAY in barely legible lettering. Below that, a filigree of dead black tubes spelled out NO VACANCY.

  The merchant cracked the door as far as the chain would allow and eyed Toler through the opening. “What is it now?”

  “I’ve been thinking things over, and I’ve changed my mind about our little secret.”

  “Have you?” Jakob sounded uninterested. He closed the door, and Toler heard the latch snick from its slide. The merchant opened it wide and beckoned him in, closing it behind him.

  “I’ve been mulling it over ever since that night, and I figure there’s no reason to get Vantanible involved in this at all,” Toler said, pacing the floor. The room smelled like smoke and mildew, and there were yellow stains on the ceiling.

  Calistari took a seat on one of the two sagging beds, listening.

  “It doesn’t even matter to me anymore whether that ammo is yours or not. What matters is that you and I can both profit from it. If we sell it and get it off our hands, you’ll be free of the contraband and Vantanible won’t be able to pin a thing on you.”

  “I’ve told you already. The ammunition is not mine. I don’t know how it got there. But I like your tack. The way I see it, whoever put it in with my things donated it to me. I won’t pass up the opportunity to turn a fortunate coincidence like this into a fortune.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Now, in exchange for letting you off the hook, I’d rather not have any part in the actual sale of the merchandise - I’ll leave that up to you, and I’ll take my cut of the profits in advance. Also, I want Vantanible to receive nothing but good reports about me and the rest of the crew.”

  Jakob smiled, a thin-lipped expression that inflated his jowls. “How touching. Even while you’re betraying your friends with one hand, you’re looking out for them with the other. You think clean reports will help when they find out you’ve deceived them?”

  Toler smiled back at the merchant. “Since when do you care what my friends think of me?”

  “Very well. I suppose your affairs are none of my concern.”

  “Glad to hear it. How many dolls are there?”

  “I had fifty of them made.”

  “That’s a nice whole number - three hundred rounds, if each doll has the same amount sewn in. Now, we can’t have you selling the ammo right in front of everybody. Wait until we get to Lottimer, move the whole shipment at once, and do it off-market. With the ammo removed, you’ll be free to sell the dolls like you were planning. You’ll profit twice.”

  “And what happens when we get to Lottimer and Blatcher demands justice?”

  “The good report will make him happy enough that he’ll forget about it. The extra earnings will smooth over any hard feelings.”

  “You’re sure about this…” Jakob said, skeptical.

  Toler kept his gaze steady on the merchant. “I’m sure.”

  “Then I trust your word.”

  Toler stopped pacing and glanced at the strongbox on the merchant’s bedside table.

  “Oh, your advance. I’d almost forgotten.” Jakob pulled a tray from inside, its compartments bearing an assortment of fine metals. There were gold and silver coins from before the Heat, serviceable as currency in most places; rings, watches, bracelets, chains, lockets, earrings, and necklaces; and a variety of smooth gemstones, which were popular among the riverfolk due to their abundance in the stream beds. Calistari also removed the cloth bag that contained several lengths and coils of copper electrical wire. From among his riches he separated out a pile that included several ounces of gold, silver, and copper. “Agreeable?” he asked.

  “A little more,” Toler said.

  Calistari chewed his lip, but in the end he added a few more pieces to the handful of fine metals and held it out to Toler. “Here you are. A bargain well-struck.”

  Toler cupped his hands beneath, but the merchant hesitated.

  “You’re sure you want to do it this way?”

  “Doing it this way gives everyone what they want. You want to make money. Blatcher wants you off his case so he can stop worrying about his job and his neck. Mays wants to spend his days philosophizing and his nights screwing hookers.”

  “And what do you want, Mr. Glaive?”

  A breezy grin spread over Toler’s face. “I just want to make everyone happy.”

  12

  “This is driving me insane,” said Blatcher, rubbing his forehead. “Calistari isn’t even fazed that we know about his stash. It’s like he really didn’t know the bullets were there. He’s gonna make nice with Vantanible, and then he’s gonna squeal on us. I know it. But then you’ve gotta think - if someone planted that ammo like he claims, then he doesn’t know whether somebody’s coming for it. Why isn’t he worried?”

  Andover Mays took a swig of beer through one side of his mouth without removing his cigarette from the other. “You’re over-thinking this. Get a hold of yourself. You sound like a scared little bitch right now. He’s lying. Nobody does anything to Calistari’s stuff without Calistari knowing. That dway is meticulous as they come. Don’t think he doesn’t know the wheres and whens of every fart that wafts in and out of his crate. He’s playing us like fiddles - and you’re cracking under the pressure.”

  Blatcher scowled at him, his cheek bunching around the knuckles it was resting on.

  “You really think he’s lying?” Toler said. “He’s the one who insisted we guard the crate at all times. When would he unload it without us knowing? I think he’s really going to come clean with Vantanible.”

  Lodd and Shapperton were on shift guarding Calistari’s crate - and who knew where Ort Raukel was - so the three of them sat drinking in the Riverbed Tavern, the only watering hole in Rills suitable for shepherds. It wasn’t that there weren’t others; it was that they didn’t cater to ‘thugs and ruffians,’ as many of Rills’ proprietors referred to them. Nevermind that Toler and his co-workers were half the reason the town had any good booze to begin with. Riverfolk were like that - something about the calming nature of their streams made them averse to having a good time. That much could be said for the town’s distinct lack of prostitutes, which Andover Mays had been decrying since they arrived.

  “It’s that cousin of his, the one in Lottimer,” said Blatcher. “He’ll offload it there - dolls, ammo and all. They’ll sell it across the Gulf or over the Tideguine. It’ll be long gone before we know any better.”

  “He’ll still have to answer to Vantanible,” said Mays.

  Blatcher frowned. “Unless he manages to sell it under our noses and then sweet-talk the boss when we get to Lottimer.”

  “If he tries to pull something like that, then it’s our word against his,” said Toler. “I’d rather it be our word plus a crate-load o
f ammo, though. I like your theory about the cousin. We need to keep Jakob from palming them off. Vantanible is very clear on the rules. The ledger exists for a reason – he wants to know everything that’s coming and going. He’s never tolerated smugglers, and he won’t make an exception for Jakob.”

  Toler looked out over the sleepy town, its torches diminishing one by one along the shoreline as the night deepened. The tavern was built in the middle of what had been the river Awliph in the old days, mounted on tall pylons like a dockhouse. Now, instead of water rushing by underneath, the deck loomed over a dry channel of silt and gravel twenty-five feet below. The roped-in walkway leading to its entrance jutted from the shore, giving you the sensation that you were rising even though it stayed level as the riverbed fell away below you. The tavern was crowded with shepherds tonight, and Toler could feel the platform shift every so often under the weight.

  “I hope you’re both right,” said Blatcher. “All this worrying has been giving me the shits.”

  Andover Mays ran his hands through grease-sculpted hair and gave Blatcher a disgusted smile. “I thought you smelled worse than usual. You worry too much, my friend.”

  “He still thinks Calistari is gonna complain about us,” Toler said to Andover Mays. “That’s why he’s worried.”

  “Yeah, and I still haven’t figured out why you aren’t,” Blatcher said.

  “I never worry. I only do things that are fun or necessary, and worrying is neither.”

  “Wise words from the dway who got us into this mess to start with.”

  Toler shrugged. “Worry if you like. Let it paralyze you. That’ll be the thing that keeps you from conquering what you’re so worried about.”

  “You can’t conquer a merchant, like he’s a castle or something,” Blatcher said.

  “You’re wrong. You can conquer anything that has a weakness.”

  “You said the deal was his weakness. You said the deal would work. It didn’t.”

  “We don’t know that yet. You’re jumping to conclusions. You’re trying to predict what he’s going to do.”